Lonely Like We Are
by Lanie McCoy
Summary: Sitting together with Hiei, as they sometimes do, Kurama comments on how fascinating Hiei is to think about. Any shounenai hinting is unintentional.


Disclaimer: Kurama is begging me to let him out of my house. Yeah, that's what I said.

Shounen-ai much? Sorry, not this time. You could see it that way if you tilt your head, squint, and say "foxy man" five times fast. Character speculation, though.

_Lonely Like We Are_

He's actually quite fascinating to watch.

Hiei, I mean.

Anyone who knows about him—well, that sounds rather coarse; perhaps I should say "those of us who know his past" know that his chilled, overpowering demeanor is a reaction to the torments he's suffered. His angry glares don't always face one person or one thing, and usually, I think a part of them (albeit a small part) is aimed at himself. He might not know it, at least not all the time, but I don't believe he could have survived his childhood with a child's mindset and not blame himself a little. Of course, then I must admit that he did not keep his child's mindset for as long as he might have.

I heard an amusing theory, once, that his naturally gravity-defying hair was a result of all his bottled up emotions trying to emerge in some physical form. I might relay that to Hiei if I wasn't afraid of the repercussions. I personally advocate the notion that his hidden passions take form in his sharp glares and most importantly, his brilliant eyes. Not the Jagan, but his natural ones. His glittering, shining, perfectly red eyes are things of beauty.

They radiate of horrible things, those beautiful eyes of his. Pain, and broken trusts…loss, and forgone dreams…murders most foul, as well as watching his own life threatened time and again… In a morbid sort of way, they are perfect. Each tiny crimson dot of iris, each perfectly black circle of pupil, each stain of unshed tears over each painted white…oh, my, I'm getting awfully sentimental.

But I cannot deny that Hiei's eyes make me think of him with a new sort of lens covering my mind. He is not harsh, nor crude, nor unaffected. He is merely reacting, forging his way through the only life he has ever had the opportunity to lead, all the while pretending that he knows exactly what he's doing. I don't want to sound pompous, but I'm not fooled by that fascia. Hiei doesn't know what he's doing. None of us do. I haven't known how to live since I died twenty-two years ago ("I" referring, of course, to the old me), and Hiei hasn't known how to live since he was thrown from the island of Koorime.

We are allied in this way, from some viewpoint. We are strong because it has been forced upon us by devastation: for me before my untimely death, and for Hiei, after meeting us all. My life was not easy, contrary to what someone might think. I stole because I was bored, and I was bored because I was old. Being old has few advantages; only knowledge, in fact, something which has crippled me for that last twelve-odd years.

I wonder, sometimes, how has it been a crippling thing? Knowledge is a skill I would rather do with than without, certainly. In battle, however, it does dictate my movements in a limited fashion. I cannot charge forward with Yûsuke's brash confidence nor Kuwabara's proud determination, nor even Hiei's quickfire instinct. Hiei calls my careful analyzing mind a weakness; I call it an annoyance, and then I realize that Hiei might be on to something.

I cannot fight any foe without first watching his every motion, every fluid wave or stocky jerk of his body, detecting strengths and weaknesses. Only once I have mapped out his entire tactic can I make a move, and if I determine that I am too weak to face him, I am placed at a distinct disadvantage. I cannot back down from the fight, of course; none of us can. But I will know, all the while, that unless something miraculous happens to tilt the battle in my favor, I will not win.

Listen to me ramble; I began talking of Hiei and am now talking of myself. It is the way of the fox, I suppose, to be arrogant such as that. I think, deep down inside of me, that I am more important, more deserving to have my story told. I very much doubt this, but my heart of hearts tries to pull me in that direction, anyway. Nature is a funny thing.

Speaking of nature, as I try to return to Hiei (which is, after all, the point of things), the little spitfire is quite a marvel of natural things. Unnatural things, rather: fire and ice, passion and rage, lust and death.

These things, maybe, are not so different. Fire and ice are a pair in and of themselves—fire melts ice as it is frozen, thus neither truly wins over the other and they are caught in a timeless battle. What is rage, also, but a kind of burning passion—passion for the hunt and for the kill? The sort of passion Hiei is said to feel is that of positive emotions, such as love, but they are truly one and the same. Lust and death (lust referring, of course, to the lust for life) and nothing but a bound entity. We come and we go. We love and we hate. We live and we die. As Hiei himself told me once, there is no sense in trying to avoid what has already been brought upon all of us.

I suppose that what this is all getting at is that a desire to live is all well and good for children, but older, wiser, more learned beings as we are can be made tired and weary of life. Love is everything for itself, as hate can fill us with a tumultuous sensation that cannot be named but is acted on in a most fulfilling and satisfying way. Neither is truly perfect, but both allow us to feel _something_, to know we are still alive.

Hiei tells me he has no need for such things.

He is lonely, I can see. One who is lonely himself can always spot others in the same predicament. Where I am sometimes so weak as to fall into my loneliness, Hiei steadfastly ignores his. Somewhere deep inside of him, it gnaws away at his core, but if he chooses to pretend it does not hurt him, that is not my decision to make. He is strong, and pretends to have no need for friends. He pretends to have no need for me, which sometimes hurts my heart. I remember that it is his defense against the world, and I am temporarily sated until my world comes crashing down for the nth time, and I need to tell myself these things again. This gloomy cycle makes up but a small part of my life; namely, that part centered around my friends. Hiei does not show when his world is on fire; he pretends it isn't there and continues to try to live.

Passion is only slightly harder to ignore. Hiei has much experience keeping his emotions on a short leash; he does not smile kindly when he sees Yukina, nor does his expression twist into some malice when he sees Kuwabara. He is constantly neutral, his lovely eyes bitter with ages of torture and disappointment. He tries to pretend, I know, tries to say he has long since grown beyond disappointment at anything, but it lingers. It is not too hard to see. He can pretend not to care, but he cannot pretend to be calm, and therein lies his downfall in my mind. Out of respect for him and his wishes, I pretend not to notice.

Every day, I see these things, and every day, I pretend not to notice. No day, however, will I ever forget. My time as Hiei's companion—he does not wish to have friends and I will not grace myself with such a title—will never be forgotten. I will die, that much is certain, but in my death, I will remember always. Hiei will never be lost, nor forgotten, no matter what he has felt up to now. No matter what he has told himself he wants to be, I will not allow him to disappear.

This may be some disservice, but I cannot allow any less. I am not so sure he will ever thank me, but I believe that I am doing what is best and until I am proven wrong, I will continue to keep his memory alive. I don't know, to be honest, if he is dead or not. I see him from time to time, but that means little. All I can say with any certainty is that no matter the state of his being, I will remember the days we walked together, the nights we spent apart, the laughs we shared, the tears we never shed, and I will not let him fade away.

Maybe, someday, someone will approach me with the news that a friend of mine has died. Until that time, I will see him from time to time, looking into his beautiful eyes and uncovering new heartaches and pains I am sure he wishes to be banished from his mind. I will remember how similar we two are, and how different, and I will know that in our births, we were intended to be many things, but certainly never what we have become. Perhaps he was meant to live as I was meant to die, but it doesn't really matter now. All I can do is smile at his indifference and see that he is lonely, and I can sit with him for a brief moment and ask him only one question:

"Where did we go astray?"

And he will smirk at me in that overconfident way of his, for a moment hiding the loneliness in his heart, and he will shake his head at my ignorance and answer me curtly:

"Does it really matter?"

And I will expect this answer and smile, and then we will sit together, lonely companions, and understand that some things are simply meant to be this way.


End file.
